


assorted statements

by graveyardroses



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Other, Set during S1, just. me writing assorted ones, original written statements, sometimes other characters will enter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26009755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveyardroses/pseuds/graveyardroses
Summary: These are not part of the magnus archives canon. Probably some jonmartin in the later statements.
Kudos: 2





	1. a ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Anthony Brooks regarding a ghost in his home.

Statement of Anthony Brooks regarding a ghost in his home. Original statement given March 3rd, 2018. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

_ Statement begins.  _

I am not someone who is easily terrified.   
But there are few times when I have been as afraid as I was last night. 

I don’t know if there is anything you can do. If there’s some way of saving her. But I need - I need to know that I'm not insane. That this wasn’t a dream or an elaborate prank.   
And even if it was, if all this will do is give me some sense of closure, maybe i’ll be able to sleep again.

i’d known going in that I would be unsettled. I’d sleep with the closet light on, I thought, cat curled around my pillow for warmth as the house creaked and groaned.  
But I had never expected, out of all the horror stories I'd read, the campfire stories I'd told, that the monster I'd encounter would be this.   
Monster. The word seems familiar.   
I used to believe it meant the cruel. The unkind.  
I know, now, what it means.

_ 

I’ll start at the beginning. I rented a flat in central London. I’d lived there for a while, and made a home for myself. 

However, the landlord didn’t allow pets of any kind - besides the occasional goldfish. This was never a problem for me, until I met copper. 

I’ve lived alone ever since grad school, and it was never a problem for me. While some people withered in isolation, I thrived. there was no one to care for, and no one to believe caring for me was a burden. 

I saw her in a shelter a few blocks away from my home. Ginger fur and a warm, soft smile. I signed the papers immediately and did what I could to sneak her into my home. 

Having a cat definitely -  _ improved  _ my way of living. I cleaned the litter box regularly, and during the moments in which loneliness pulled me under, Copper was there to snuggle in my lap even at the most inconvenient of times. 

I’d forgotten the landlord’s monthly checkup. He caught me off guard, and as he saw the cat he gave me notice of eviction. I had a week to get my things together and find someplace new to live. 

I was recently fired from my job, so money was something of a difficulty. The places in and around london were significantly over my budget, and I had no intention of having a flatmate.   
So when all my things were packed and I had nowhere to go, a day away from being kicked out - the house’s listing came as a blessing.

It was definitely affordable - a large stone house just outside of Devon. The doors were made of coated wood, and above them hung old, stone gargoyles.

The only catch was its history. It was… rather grisly. In the early twentieth century, it was owned by a family suspected of various kidnappings and the occasional murder.

Of course, I signed the contract immediately and began the process of moving. Copper was glad for the large space, and roamed through the halls during the day.

I was not an idiot. This seemed like the plot of a terrible horror movie. Someone moves into a nearly-abandoned home. They disappear mysteriously after. I have never believed in the supernatural but still, I was on guard. 

Then came the sounds. 

It was around the fifth night of my stay there.  At around 4 in the morning, I heard a nearly quiet movement. The tread of footsteps dragged along creaking wood. 

Slowly and steadily, the footsteps came for me. 

I shut my eyes tight and cradled Copper closer.   
The noise grew louder, and louder - until eventually, it reached my door.

It paused, and I wanted to scream.   
Every bone in my body froze. Fear curdled in the pit of my stomach. It was physical. Uncontrollable. _Horrifying._

Before I could attempt to leap out of my bead and grab something, anything to defend myself, it kept walking. the tread became lighter, and quieter as it moved farther away.

I don’t remember when I fell asleep. But my dreams were filled with wild, vivid imaginings of the trudging figure.   
When I awoke, Copper was gone.

And on the floor lay pools of thick, brackish water, trickling through the floorboards.

I swear the room was locked from the inside. The windows were stiff and closed.   
I miss her. Hell, I miss her so much.

_ STATEMENT ENDS. _

This account is intriguing. However, as usual, there is no way of finding proof. Martin contacted Brooks to ask for a follow-up interview, but he is reluctant to provide any further information. However, he was not able to find Copper. He has a new cat of a different name. 

In researching them we’ve found nothing but the records of an arrest regarding an accusation of domestic abuse reported by Brooks at one Charleston Young back in 2008.  
However, we can’t ignore the repetition of this... brackish water. It was before portrayed in statement  0020312 regarding the Montauk family. 

Still, I wonder…   
I don’t know. 

Recording ends. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. bubblegum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Adair Wilson regarding an unnamed ghost that cannot be seen. trigger warnings: referenced death of a family member. descriptions of burns. canon-typical horror elements.

[We can hear the faint sound of crackling tape and the rustle of papers.]

**Archivist [coughing slightly before speaking]:**

Statement of Adair Wilson, regarding an unnamed monster that cannot be seen. Original statement given October 6th, 2019. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

**Archivist (statement):**

They tell you that memories fade over time. That they distort themselves depending on what you want to have happened, depending on what you accept happened.

I know what I remember. The night was like a song you’d memorized the lyrics to, one you couldn’t forget. I’d lie awake and remember. I wrote it down, damnit. I wrote it down and it’s real. I know what happened. 

I came here because I had no other options. You’ve got a bad reputation, you know. This place is supposed to be full of liars and I have no idea how you stay afloat all this time. But this isn’t about you. I’ll get to the point.

This is about Ben.

He was twelve years old when it happened. We were playing in the creek. I was nine. He’d dressed in a moth-eaten sweater, blue jeans, and muddy shoes. “Don’t be a wimp, Addy, get over here.” One hop across the rocks, two hops.. “What, ya scared or what _?”_ Three hops, four hops, five hops, six. _Wait- Addy, no, there’s something - Addy, don’t._ A foot out of place, and the creek turned red.

It went like this: blue water, black hair, red blood. Blue jeans, muddy water, muffled screams, blood. Bloodstained blue-jeans and a corpse. The wailing of my mother. Why isn’t he speaking? Why doesn’t his head look right? They did not have an open casket. They buried him six-feet under on a sunday afternoon and the air smelled like dead cicadas and gas. I say I don’t remember much of him but I see his face, smiling, tying my shoes. I see his laugh, kicking feet back on a swing in midair, converse touching the tops of trees. I see him.

There was something in the water. A shape ripping through the surface. A spray of brackish water drenching my untied shoes. There was something in the water, and there shouldn’t have been, because the creek wasn’t deeper than a few inches, and a sewage pipe sat a few meters away that would have killed anything that’d managed to survive in the current. 

It was ruled as an accident. I remember the look in his eyes before he fell. I have never seen a face as terrified as his and I probably never will again. That is not the look of someone killed in an accident. It is the look of someone killed by something they cannot understand.

This was fifteen years ago. I have not forgotten anything. I have not made anything up and I have not hallucinated, I swear to you. I am tired of doctors, of newspapers, of hospitals telling me what I saw is not real. I am tired of the looks I get from the people I tell. You’re the only place that has a chance of believing me. 

There is something behind me. It is behind me right now as I write this. it is behind me when I sleep. When I curl over, I can hear it breathing. hollow, ragged breaths, one after the other. It does not stop. When I brush my teeth, shut the door, walk to work, it is behind me, hovering somewhere I cannot see, somewhere no one can see, not even a mirror is placed facing another - all I see is the back of my head.   
Six weeks ago. It started six weeks ago, a few days after the anniversary of Ben's death. I went to the creek, lit a candle, and floated it across. I heard something - a rustle of leaves, a scattering of stones. I turned around, and felt it for the first moment. Something behind the back of my head.   
Think of it like this: there is someone behind you right now. You turn around, and they turn around with you.  
You grasp blindly to reach for it, to fight it, and it moves out of reach. You ask people on the street if they can see it. They look at you like you’re insane. They walk past and shake their heads, and still it stands behind you.

Now think of this every moment of every day. you are never alone and you can never be alone, no matter how loud you scream, no matter how long you rest. Every morning it is there. Every morning you wish it dead.

My family has no history of hallucinations - nor does it have any history of psychosis or schizophrenia. I am not making this up. They tell me I am making this up and I swear to you. I am not a liar.

You’re asking yourself why I came now, if I've been watched for weeks. Or maybe you’re not. You’re probably not. The simple answer: I’m here because of what happened a few days ago. 

I was dreaming - and I remember it. 

There was the comforting darkness of sleep. and then, water. Not the water in a pool, not the water you’d want to swim or play in. Endless, dark water that clutched at your lungs. I sank deeper and deeper, and I could not move. I coughed and flailed for the surface but there was none. The wretched thing was watching me - but not from behind. from all sides. I could not see it in the darkness, but I could hear the bubbling of its breath. I could feel it pulling me in, and the water grew colder than water should be. I screamed. The water seeped through my lungs, trickling through every vein and filling my blood with salt and brine.

I woke up and my bed was covered in mud. my sheets were soaking wet and smelled like the same brackish water from the river. The floor was flooded, water dripping from the floorboards and walls. The air was thick with the scent of drug-store bubblegum, and I could feel it behind me, coming closer, the cold inches away from my skin. Centimeters. I could feel the cold before it hit my skin - and if i could have screamed in that moment i would have. I prayed to a god I did not believe in - and I don't know if it was coincidence or faith that kept me alive but I don’t care. 

Its touch burned like nothing in this world, but I’ll attempt to describe it anyway. Like a child putting a palm against a preheated oven, like an arm in open flame, like seventy-degree water in a swimming pool without the comfort of dry clothes. And then - a scream. It wasn’t my scream. It sounded like a throat being ripped out of a chest. It still rings in my ears, no matter how loud and heavy the music I play is. I don’t think it’ll ever go away.

In that moment I understood two things. One: that the monster in my room had been the thing that killed my brother. Two: that i could hurt it. I yelled and my throat cracked, screaming profanities and insults and throwing punches that burned through my skin. It cried and wailed and I could not hear what it was trying to say, if it could even talk, over the noise of the room. I clawed and tore at it until it screamed no more. The water disappeared. The monster disappeared, wounded, and the water evaporated like it was never there. 

You know the rest. I was admitted to the hospital for fourth-degree burns and half my shoulder gone, where the creature touched. I will never stand again. There was no fire in my apartment. There was no gas in my apartment. There was no one in my apartment except for me and the watcher. It’s still watching me, you know. It’s looking over my shoulder. It’s inhaling and exhaling and inhaling and exhaling and  _ watching. _

Get it away from me. Please, get it away from me. I don't know how much time I have left and I don't want to spend it waiting for the next touch of a burning ghost, I'm begging you and I shouldn't have to beg for my damn life. please. I’m scared. 

I’m so scared.   
  


**Archivist:** **  
** Statement ends. Well. That was an interesting one, considering the actions of the theoretical monster and how real their repercussions are. The transcript itself is clipped with a file listing their medical records - and it matches up with the burns described previously. 

**[We hear the rustling of papers in the background. The archivist clears his throat.]**

**Archivist:** **  
** My initial thoughts were that the events described in a statement were some kind of elaborate prank. This could explain the familiar water dumped across their bed, and would account for the burns. The monster could be a symptom of an undiagnosed illness, or a result of the trauma of the brother’s death. However, the medical report and analysis of the scene say differently. There are no traces of footsteps, the windows had been nailed shut some time before it happened, the floorboards revealed no hidden passageways, and the door was locked from the inside. There was no possible way someone could have entered the room, splashed water on them, and created a concentrated burn. 

[T **he archivist sighs heavily.]**

**Archivist:**  
I did some research into her brother. It was ruled as an accident, yes, and the coroner’s reports indicated the cause of death was a fall on sharp rocks. there are only pebbles in the creek, according to photos dating back to that year and month. It seems Wilson was right in that aspect. 

Ben Wilson’s body was incinerated after the funeral. when I attempted to track down the funeral & incineration service, there are no records of it ever existing, and in consequence, no record of his body ever being burned. The only other records we’ve gotten concerning Wilson include his arrest after stealing sixteen packs of wrigley’s bubble gum from a bodega in West Essex. He confessed and was let off with a fine.

We were unable to contact Adair for a follow-up interview, because the address of her apartment building is currently for sale. Out of boredom I checked the listing - it was offered for cheap because of the scorch marks on the wall. The marks appear to spell out three words, burned into the wallpaper: “I miss you.” 

I don’t exactly know what to make of this. Recording ends.

**[We hear the sound of a tape being clicked off.]**


End file.
